Murder Most Foul.

[mgemah]

There once was a man,

A tall and dark man,

Dark not of complexion, but his being,

His soul,

A mystery,

A phantom,

A ghoul,

Among his possessions, I remember, was
a coat, a black coat with big shiny buttons,

He also had a cat, a fat black cat, grim and shiny of eyes he named Kat,

His wife was Kate, a skinny, petite, loud mouth with a tounge so sharp, through diamonds it could cut,

An offspring, a bully, Bart is what we called him,

Robert was foul, both in his words and his ways,

But Bart could fart, yes he could,

Believe me when I tell you, that from here to Timbuktu, Bart's butt fumes were a legend.




I would watch him,

The man,

As he passed by our house,

Trudging under the starry skies in his big black coat whose tail blew in the ghastly wind,

The big shiny golden buttons, sparkling under the silver moonlight,

He would stagger,

Sometimes he would fall,

His beer would spill,

With strained might I could tell, he would crane his weathered body and drink on,

An awry sight he was,

The man would sing,

With a voice not so sweet to the ear,

Songs which I liked to hear,

Of warriors, the brave and the bold,

Non-rhythmic tunes in the biting cold.




A story is told of some land he sold,

One which belonged to his forefathers,

And that is how, they say, he got this curse of drinking money,

I too would drink,

But I preferred water or tea,

Because money choked my throat.




One night,

One chilly and fateful night,

His songs did not echo,

I waited and waited and waited, but the only sound in that foreboding night, was that of the whistling wind,

It whistled in codes, codes that seemed meaningful,

Encrypted codes that I couldn't decipher,

I was not clever,

Not as dim as Robert, but not as bright as the big gold buttons which shone in the haunting darkness,

Then without my permission, they bound me,

Long spirally chains,

Slumber's chains,

They bound me.




It was her screams, Kate's screams,

Together with mystical rays of the big orange tumor, which cut through the darkness,

Not of the man, but the dawn and into my half-dead eyes and ears,

She shrieked and shrieked,

Not Kate, Kat the cat,

She wailed, and wailed, Kate, not Kat.




At last, I saw him pass as I peered through my shiny window glass,

The black coat dragging beside his widow along the dewed shiny grass,

His arms were limp, his mouth open,

His tongue stuck out,

The morning sun, scorched his mourning son,

A policeman clutched his rusty gun, as he marched ahead* of the growing crowd,
Bart's butt muscles tightened,

Not from flatulence, but strain from the weight in the wooden cart,

Dead weight,

The gravel,

The friction,

The shrieking as ungreased bearings turned its rubber tyres,

The sound was hurtful to the ears,

The sight was hurtful to the heart,




They stared with mouths agape,
Some wailed with hands up on their heads,

Mwinyi took off his kufia, Kadzo dropped her basket,

They all stared,

And then they began to cry,

And they cried,

And cried,

And after that,

They cried even more,

Not the crowd,

No, not Kate or Kat,

Angels cried,

Their harps mourned,

A life lost,

One loved most,

A soul departed,

The sole provider.

They Mourned,

In the twilight moon, the air as dark as coal.

A murder most foul. [/i]

[PrinceMyshkin]

It's a strange story, but would be far better, I think, presented in prose. You establish a compelling narrative and I for one hung on every additional unpredictable detail; but really, what if anything does it gain by being presented in poetic format?

[mgemah]

Thank-you! I agree that it would sound better if presented in prose and that I will try to do. As far as your question goes, it gets to be a narrative poem.

[hillwalker]

It's not a case of 'sounding better' if formatted as prose or poetry.

There's no point pretending that this is a poem. It's a piece of prose broken up into separate lines to make it look like a poem. Laying it out in this fashion doesn't mean it 'gets to be a narrative poem'. Perhaps you need to read more poetry to get an understanding of the fundamental differences between prose and poetry before trying your hand at something so ambitious.

H :-)

[mgemah]

hillwalker,

I do agree that there may be something 'wrong' with the piece above as you have pointed out. But then again, it is of very little or no use at all, to me, for you to simply make assertions without making any necessary attempts at an explanation. I am here to learn and will accept all reasonable corrections and do appreciate your efforts, but what if I have read lots of poetry and failed to understand these 'fundamental differences between prose and poetry'? How will you have helped me avoid making the same mistake again?

Tell me, why does it not fit into the category of narrative poems?

[hillwalker]

It's not a narrative poem because trust me, you've not written a single line of poetry here.

If you joined all the lines together into one block of text it would read perfectly well as prose (so there's nothing wrong with what you have written). But in no way could it be termed a poem - narrative or otherwise. I wonder what made you believe that's what you had written.

To analyse the differences between poetry and prose could take a week to explain - but poetry generally relies on a degree of lyricism in the use of language, devices like metaphor and simile, some alliteration perhaps (so it sounds good when read out aloud), a rhythm or meter that conveys the contrast between action or calm, and certainly the sense that every word has been chosen carefully since poetry is essentially the crystallisation of thought into as few words as possible.

You have written a story then split it up so it looks like a poem. If you're not prepared to accept that then you really don't know a great deal about what constitutes poetry.

My suggestion was that if you were to read poetry you would soon come to understand why your attempt doesn't qualify as a poem. There are plenty of poems on this site to give you some idea of direction - and the feedback generally helps weed out the good from the bad. But if you are still are unable to see how poetry and prose differ then you're never going to be much of a poet - simple as that.

H

[Bar22do]

It was an ambitious effort, mgemah. I'm impressed with the way you manage the language. I'm not a poetry expert, but while reading I felt the poetic potential of your post, it could become a haunting, romantic epic. But it needs work. IMO, you should tighten it and work on rhythm and sonics.
I didn't understand why you mixed Western and Oriental names and also wasn't sure who killed the man (but I'm thick perhaps). The title doesn't need a full stop.

Ah, and (hereafter) I used a pair of scissors to suggest what you might consider losing from your work (I didn't try to make it poetic, your job! :wave: ). But it's only my personal preference, so feel free to disregard, if it's not help for you.

Thanks for sharing.

Best, Bar

There once was a man,
tall and dark, dark of his being;
his soul, a mystery, a phantom, a ghoul.

He had a black coat with big shiny buttons.
And a black grim cat, named Kat,
His wife was Kate, a skinny petite,
loud mouth with a tounge so sharp,
it could cut through diamonds.
An offspring - a bully Bart
and Robert, the foul.

I would watch the man, as he passed by our house,
trudging in his black coat whose tail
blew in the ghastly wind,
the golden buttons sparkling
under the silver moonlight.

An awry sight, he would stagger, or fall,
spilling his beer, craning his weathered body
and drink on.

He would sing in the biting cold
songs of brave, bold warriors
I liked to hear even though he sang
out of tune, with a voice piercing the ear.

A story is told of a land he sold,
one which belonged to his fathers,
and that is how, they say, he got
this curse of drinking money.

One fateful, chilly night,
his songs did not echo; I waited,
but only heard a whistling wind.
It whistled in codes, meaningful;
but I couldn't decipher; until finally,
slumber's chains bound me.

It was Kate's screams
together with dawn orange tumor,
that cut through the darkness.
My barely waking ears heard her
shrieking, not Kate, but Kat,
she wailed, Kate, not Kat.

I jumped to my feet and saw him
through my window glass,
the black coat dragging beside
his widow along the dewed grass.
His arms were limp, his mouth open,
tongue stuck out, the sun scorched
his mourning son.

A policeman clutched his rusty gun,
marching ahead of the growing crowd,
Bart's muscles tightened from strain,
from the weight in the wooden cart.
Dead weight, gravel, friction
and shrieking, now as ungreased bearings
turned its rubber tyres.

They stared with mouths agape,
some wailed, hands up on their heads,
Mwinyi took off his kufia,
Kadzo dropped her basket
and all cried, even the angels joined,
their harps mourned a life lost,
one loved most, the sole provider.
A murder most foul.

[tailor STATELY]

One thing that niggles me in the original poem is the attention to puerile rhetoric for comic effect:


Murder Most Foul.

There once was a man,

A tall and dark man,

Dark not of complexion, but his being,

His soul,

A mystery,

A phantom,

A ghoul,

Among his possessions, I remember, was
a coat, a black coat with big shiny buttons,

He also had a cat, a fat black cat, grim and shiny of eyes he named Kat,

His wife was Kate, a skinny, petite, loud mouth with a tounge so sharp, through diamonds it could cut,

An offspring, a bully, Bart is what we called him,

Robert was foul, both in his words and his ways,

But Bart could fart, yes he could,

Believe me when I tell you, that from here to Timbuktu, Bart's butt fumes were a legend.




I would watch him,

The man,

As he passed by our house,

Trudging under the starry skies in his big black coat whose tail blew in the ghastly wind,

The big shiny golden buttons, sparkling under the silver moonlight,

He would stagger,

Sometimes he would fall,

His beer would spill,

With strained might I could tell, he would crane his weathered body and drink on,

An awry sight he was,

The man would sing,

With a voice not so sweet to the ear,

Songs which I liked to hear,

Of warriors, the brave and the bold,

Non-rhythmic tunes in the biting cold.




A story is told of some land he sold,

One which belonged to his forefathers,

And that is how, they say, he got this curse of drinking money,

I too would drink,

But I preferred water or tea,

Because money choked my throat.




One night,

One chilly and fateful night,

His songs did not echo,

I waited and waited and waited, but the only sound in that foreboding night, was that of the whistling wind,

It whistled in codes, codes that seemed meaningful,

Encrypted codes that I couldn't decipher,

I was not clever,

Not as dim as Robert, but not as bright as the big gold buttons which shone in the haunting darkness,

Then without my permission, they bound me,

Long spirally chains,

Slumber's chains,

They bound me.




It was her screams, Kate's screams,

Together with mystical rays of the big orange tumor, which cut through the darkness,

Not of the man, but the dawn and into my half-dead eyes and ears,

She shrieked and shrieked,

Not Kate, Kat the cat,

She wailed, and wailed, Kate, not Kat.




At last, I saw him pass as I peered through my shiny window glass,

The black coat dragging beside his widow along the dewed shiny grass,

His arms were limp, his mouth open,

His tongue stuck out,

The morning sun, scorched his mourning son,

A policeman clutched his rusty gun, as he marched ahead* of the growing crowd,
Bart's butt muscles tightened,

Not from flatulence, but strain from the weight in the wooden cart,

Dead weight,

The gravel,

The friction,

The shrieking as ungreased bearings turned its rubber tyres,

The sound was hurtful to the ears,

The sight was hurtful to the heart,




They stared with mouths agape,
Some wailed with hands up on their heads,

Mwinyi took off his kufia, Kadzo dropped her basket,

They all stared,

And then they began to cry,

And they cried,

And cried,

And after that,

They cried even more,

Not the crowd,

No, not Kate or Kat,

Angels cried,

Their harps mourned,

A life lost,

One loved most,

A soul departed,

The sole provider.

They Mourned,

In the twilight moon, the air as dark as coal.

A murder most foul.

I enjoyed Bar22do's rendition very much. There is an attention to word-craft and structure that the original lacks.

I see your original work as what one might write on foolscap as a first concept to be rendered and revised, with attention to poetics, many times before being sent for review by one's peers; only then to be finalized prior to being gilt on parchment.

A silk purse may often be made from a sow's ear in the poetic world if due diligence is made by the poet.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY

[mgemah]

Damn! Knew I would encounter lots of criticism for my posts in this place when I registered, but this is way over it. Awesome!

Bar22do,

Thank-you for the advice, I too love the rendition. I'll try to work on it.

hillwalker,

I meant wrong in the mode of presentation and of course, there's an awful lot that I don't know about poetry and that's why I said that I'm here to learn. Thank-you for the instructions!